obsession
by UnknwnParadise
Summary: sometimes, it's sick, toxic, a gun pointed at her chest and a knife held at his throat, crimson on her hands, amaranth on his, no way out.


**a/n** **-** **i saw this idea (** **post/113788174592** **) from** ** _ibuzoo_ ****in the tomione tag and, since i'm weak for this kind of things and this ship, i absolutely HAD to write this.**

moreover, this in a NON MAGIC, college au, of very dubious content. it is supposed to depict a toxic relationship. so _don't try at home!_

* * *

 **[ prelude ]**

there's a thin, thin barrier between predator and prey and she waltzes along the line with the grace of a ballerina as he runs his fingers through her hair, as he holds her hand for her to spin for him, dance for him.

sometimes, the happily ever after is twister, dark, bathed in red, and she knows the taste of his blood, the feel of his tongue, knows she's doomed before even trying for redemption.

o.

she feels warmth and softness and she knows, at the back of her mind, that it's not supposed to be there, it's not okay, it's alien and odd and she needs to **_wake up_** , to open her eyes, to KNOW.

there's the ghost of a touch down her back and she shivers, murmurs, clenches her fists.

( in her dreams, hermione sees the shadow of a smile, the smile of a shadow and she knows, deep into the most hidden chamber of her heart, that she's afraid and unafraid at the same time, that real life collides with the stories she read, with the stories she's written, and it's danger and iron at the tip of her tongue, beckoning, ravishing, calling for her. )

i.

she wakes and the sun is blinding her, the mess of curls shining golden as the light filters through the window panes & she smells perfume that's unfamiliar but ignores it, even as it fills her lungs with black tar, raises from bed and walks to the bathroom.

and she screams.

( the picture stuck to her mirror is eerie and she tries to even her breaths even as her fingers trace the words over and over again, smudges the marker against the tips until she paints them black, until her sleeping face is blurred with lines and the words cannot be read again; **i see you.** )

ii.

she's trembling with anger when the police officer looks her over and, with monotony in his voice, says that there's nothing to be done, there's nothing they can help her with, because there's no clue, no fingertip, they can't find a shadow.

the photography lays on the table and she catches sight of a shoulder blade before leaving the office, gritting her teeth, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in—

( the police reminds her yet again of the incompetence of the system and it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, decides to do something herself, even as her instincts tell her to turn, to run as far as she can. )

 **[ interlude ]**

'he's a freak! we should do something about it!'

harry smashes his fist against the table and she flinches away, watches ginny with a wary eye as the girl looks back, frowns, looks at her boyfriend. it isn't supposed to be such a big deal, but harry is seething, ron demands that he moves in with her, puts aside all the nights he himself had made her cry, _it's for your own safety, mione, you know it_.

she smiles, shrugs one shoulder, refuses. the shards of glass at her feet are a strong reminder that she's supposed to be careful, to walk on the tips of her toes because this is dangerous, this is no novel, this is real life.

( she ends up charging head first, to hell with everything. )

iii.

she knows it's him the moment he smiles her way. tom marvolo riddle is two years older than she and the brightest man to ever walk the halls of oxford, his impeccable white shirt, crisp and bright, mirrored in the perfect row of teeth he flashed towards her.

there's a pull in her stomach, dragging her towards him, the coil of the rope wrapped around her throat and his & she knows she must be the first to pull in order to survive this, dig her nails into the flesh of his chest and rip.

( that night, she feels the ghost of a pair of lips hovering over her cheek and she breathes in, breathes out, places the polaroid carefully between the pages of her diary. )

iv.

she follows him home the next day, the autumn wind freezing the marrow of her bones as the thin dress swishes and swirls around her bare thighs, but her eyes are sharp, steady, as long fingers twist the key into the lock, as he's swallowed by the darkness of his apartment.

her phone vibrates, buzzes, ginny's face flashing over the display; hermione brushes her finger over the foil covering the screen, looks once more towards a lit window in her peripheral vision, and answers.

( in the morning, there's a piece of paper in front of his door, damp from the rain that fell before dawn but the words are clear, red ink imprinted in white, soaked into the fibre of the page; he holds it in his hands, brushes a thumb over it, feels the dampness. the smile on his lips is feral, strange, a mixture of wonder and contempt: **i see you.** )

v.

they don't date. the absurdity of the statement is astonishing, but she kisses him against the wall of the girl's bathroom, reminds herself that this is where myrtle died just hours ago.

 **[ prelude ]**

'she's a distraction,' bella says, nonchalantly, her legs draped over the side of the armchair so she gives away too much while not offering anything at all.

tom's attention is solely on the screen of his blackberry, the shadow of a grin clinging to freshly bitten lips and abraxas frowns, tightens his grip on the knife he is playing with until his knuckles turn white.

avery watches with sympathy before reloading his gun, shrugging his shoulder, and tom sets the phone aside, his gaze sharp, glacial, fierce.

'she's smarter than you lot together.'

( he doesn't know if the game they play is a game at all, but he leaves a rose on the bathroom sink this time and when he sees her next, she wears it braided in her hair )

vi.

his tongue traces the column of her throat, white in the dim light of the city at night and her nails leave crescent moons in his arms, long, red lines over his back as small hands creep underneath his shirt. her skirt is hitched around her waist, her lips parted and he wants to pluck the petals of the roses from her hair one by one, the bloodied feathers from her back, but she's quick, lioness, crushes her chest around his and he sees red.

( she whispers, gentle against his lips, fingers in his hair, and the words still his hands, make his eyes widen with want and need because it's her, she's unafraid, he knew, but it's _more, more, more_ , and she wants it all; **i see you.** )

 **[ epilogue ]**

there's a thin, thin barrier between predator and prey and she waltzes along the line with the grace of a ballerina as he runs his fingers through her hair, as he holds her hand for her to spin for him, dance for him.

sometimes, the happily ever after is twisted, dark, bathed in red, and she knows the taste of his blood, the feel of his tongue, knows she's doomed before even trying for redemption.

sometimes, it's sick, toxic, a gun pointed at her chest and a knife held at his throat, crimson on her hands, amaranth on his, no way out.

he kills for her and because of her and she knows she should run, but it's too late. he holds the leash around her throat and she holds the chains around his wrists and she's broken, shattered, stitched back together as he wants her.

but so is he.


End file.
